by Kevin Barry
‘You did what?’ I say. Now I am concerned by Johnny’s disrepair and burning breath, the cabbagey pallor of his skin.
‘The man from Guinness just happened to be in the area.’
‘This is Cadiz?’
‘Quality control is very important to them. We’ll be pouring filthy black pints before the day is out.’ Johnny hooks his arm around my neck, his pool shoes making a sound like a flapping salmon, so that I can see the proud and gaudy lettering on the sign in the trolley: Foley’s Bar, Cadiz.
This bar, everything to do with it and what it means to Johnny – and, I wonder, him to it – is something I would rather ignore as something ridiculous but easy to bear, like someone singing the Hokey Cokey in between courses of a tasting menu. His life choices, the choices that led him to a German jail, and now to an Irish bar in a town no one but me seems to regard as a destination, are the reason I don’t take my brother seriously and he has never had a problem with this.
‘Wait till you see what we’ve done with the place,’ he says, panting like a spaniel.
‘Since when?’ I say.
‘You’d be surprised what you can do when you put your mind to it.’
‘I have to see this,’ I say.
I sense something, though, and become timid as we turn the corner to the old Puntillitas, whose rankness has been replaced by minimalism and restraint, in theory. I understand now what Johnny – and, somewhere in the background, blasting Pogues records at distortion levels, Nacho – is trying to achieve with this place and I hate it. My quasi-boyfriend, with confidence that only intermittently betrays his drunkenness, climbs the ladder to erect the sign for Foley’s Bar. I stand at the bar, lean backwards as if to stretch my spine and study the greasy ceiling, turn a full turn and take in the Celtic mural Johnny has applied to the bare walls above the tile-line.
‘You’ve written what all over these beautiful walls? A poem?’ (This isn’t to say that I am not a sentimental man and don’t love poetry and dip in and out of it during the dark times, just like the next man.)
‘The Great Hunger. You sent it to me when I was in prison. It’s perfect. This is an Irish bar.’
‘It was just a bar yesterday, and a perfectly good one. And something else entirely the day before that.’
Johnny whoops and fires a bottle of beer off a wall, so declaring the place open for business. But I do not believe that this is a real bar or that Johnny has sound intentions or that any of my momentous plans, once I have had this dinner with Oscar, will not come true. In the real world, this would not count.
I am about to leave for dinner with Oscar when a woman enters: she could be their first customer – a stiffly nervous youngster whose skin has the clarity of good veal stock, whose mobile mouth and calculating eyes I recognise from somewhere, someone else. Her brother.
This is Caridad. Nacho throws her an apron. There is work to do. I try not to squint or stare too much, but I enjoy watching my brother and his new girlfriend – my boyfriend’s sister! – work alongside each other. They have a lot to take care of. She unpacks cases of beer and he hauls in more from the store. It’s not long before he has everything out on the bar, pouring shots of rum and putting them before Caridad, who accepts them as if she has little interest in alcohol but cannot bring herself to tell him so. I observe my brother duplicate his girlfriend’s hazy gestures, something I invariably did for him when we were younger. When I look carefully I see that he is following the lines of her lips as she speaks; mouthing rosaries of his own. I wonder if he has been given the gift of love that I long for? Nacho turns on some Horslips and the Spaniards start to dance. Up onto the bar goes Johnny and I slip out of the door quickly in case anyone tries to stop me.
The air in the street outside the restaurant smells of tired oil. It always does. One of our neighbours has a stall where she fries the troublingly young fish she serves to other neighbours in paper coned like a magician’s hat. Out here, it feels like Oscar’s doesn’t exist. I push the door and find the courtyard empty except for a few dancing daddy-long-legs, the familiar purplish-mucky light – the first moment of expectation and uncertainty experienced by all visitors to this place; a restaurant that offers little assurance to the intrepid diner that you have arrived somewhere. You Are Here.
The dining room is lit and just a single table is laid with Riedel glasses and red wine in a decanter. I imagine Oscar did this before reuniting with his beef as it braised under the parchment lid; the unforeseeable transformation that always makes him smile like a child. He may be downstairs, choosing another wine, the only unknown element of the dinner that awaits us. Empty, the dining room looks like very little, which is fine with me. This is never the issue.
Taped to the oven door is a note in Oscar’s hand, familiar to me from so many lists and reminders. It is written on the back of one of his geranium photographs. I focus on the flower instead of the flat, sorrowful words, whose intent I miss at first go. His tone is indecipherable and the news, once I have read the letter several more times, is as routine and lifeless as the butcher’s block against which I am leaning. Oscar’s is now closed and has been sold and Oscar has already left this pitiable place for Buenos Aires, not to return. The note ends with an invitation to eat the meal and drink the wine; this is his gift to me. I am The Man with the Plastic Fork in the Emperor Inn in Castlebar. I drink beer after beer standing at the fridge until I am barely able to remove the casserole from the oven and spoon some into a cup, to get myself into the dining room and the table, where I notice that, instead of a napkin, the cutlery is resting on my unopened letter.
The Ladder
Sheila Purdy
On the eighth floor of Virtual Processes & Systems Corporation you hang up your jacket in the staff kitchen, kick off your runners and get into your Crocs. The water boiler has to be filled and switched on to have the water scalding by the time the catering girl comes in at 8.30 a.m. You use the linen cloth on the crystal tumblers, holding each one to the fluorescent light checking for finger marks, giving a good rub. You take them on a tray to the boardroom. The rule is a tumbler and two bottles of sparkling water beside each crimson blotter on the big table; the delft goes at the far end of the sideboard. Then you switch the air conditioning to high and close the door.
After you’ve hoovered under the desks, you have a few minutes, so you put on the kettle.
With the mug in your hand, you sidle out the back way to the seating area for a quick smoke under the tree. The morning sun gets between the buildings and shines on the ornamental paving and the grasses. Overhead, a crane towers, a heavy chain swaying idly from its arm. You sit for a few minutes and watch the chain, and after a drag or two, you put out the cigarette in the sand box and save the second half for later.
Vera, your supervisor, comes into the kitchen at a quarter to nine. With her back to you, she flicks through the catering daybook beside the phone on the worktop, and picks up the pen.
‘Annie?’ She folds back the pages. ‘Kylie’s called in sick. I won’t be able to find anyone else.’
She turns and looks at you.
‘Have you another skirt?’
You have on the little animal print you got in the sales.
‘Never mind, this meeting starts at ten. You’ll have to do as you are.’
She examines the book again.
‘Tea and coffee for seventeen. And remember, these men haven’t got time for talk. Don’t get in their way.’ She writes something in the book. ‘If you do well today, we might see about moving you up a grade.’
Her iPhone dings. She touches the screen and moves towards the door.
‘And Annie?’ She keeps walking, keeps looking at the screen. ‘Don’t offer Mr Jackson any milk. He’s lactose intolerant.’
In the two years you’ve been here, you’ve never done more than clear the big table, wipe out the executive fridge, empty the bins, line up the leather blotters, straighten the velvet swivel chairs. You’ve never done any serving. Ther
e’s not much time and you’re not supposed to go down the fire escape to the shops, your PIN access is for cleaning purposes only, but it’s the quickest way so you go. In the Spar, instead of John Player Blue, you buy a pair of Barely Black for €4.95, Microfibre with Cotton Gusset, and a packet of Silvermints.
In the eighth-floor ladies, you stop the hand dryer that seems to have been running all night. You get into the tights, balancing on one foot, putting in the other, getting hotter as you do it. Your skirt feels short, you tug it down, and pull to make it longer but it’s a hopeless skirt, the fabric has no stretch at all.
Now you fill one tall flask with tea, two with coffee, and another with boiling water – the way Kylie does it. You wheel them on the gold-plated trolley. No one is in the boardroom. The digital display on the plasma screen on the left-hand wall blinks 9:40. The tumblers seem to sparkle under the star-lights high in the ceiling. You place two oval plates on the near end of the sideboard, one full of hot croissants, the other piled with apple and cinnamon Danish delivered fresh from the deli next door; beside them, the butter, the jams, the marmalade, and the cutlery you’ve rolled in white serviettes. You can’t think of anything else. You don’t know what’s supposed to happen in a boardroom when the men come in – you should’ve asked Vera what happens, exactly, but she can be short sometimes. There’s the option of giving Kylie a bell at home, only she’d tell everyone, and anyway she’s sick. The trick is to get through the day without turning red or breaking anything. There’s time to nip out to the top step for what’s left of the fag. It’ll be all right, you tell yourself.
When you get back to the boardroom the air-con is off. Two engineers in T-shirts are working at the floor boxes with pliers and screwdrivers; beside them, on the carpet tiles, green and red insulating tape and coils of wire half rolled out. Some of the floor boxes you use for plugging in the hoover, they’re left wide open, cables spilling from the one nearest the sideboard. The pastries have been moved, the two plates stranded slantwise on top of blotters; everything has been pushed out of line. Even the plush chairs are swung in all directions, and the trolley is blocking Mr Jackson’s chair. The plasma flashes 9:49.
‘What’s all this? Mr Jackson’s meeting starts in ten minutes.’
They don’t answer.
You walk to the nearest floor box, and, with your foot, flick the lid up and over. It clangs down, bounces a little, shuts flat. A loose copper cable catches your ankle.
The younger one jumps up.
‘Hey, we’re busy here.’
You wait with your hands on your hips like your mam used to do when she meant it. You surprise yourself.
The wire picks at your tights. You bend down and get rid of it.
‘Right so, yeah, okay,’ he says, ‘we moved the plates. Laptop is going here.’ His hand is on the sideboard and he waits for a comeback, then he points with the pliers.
‘We’re patched to that box, it’s the only one we can work off.’
The other engineer lifts his head.
‘Basically, love, we need the sideboard. End of story.’ He scratches his head with the tip of a screwdriver and goes back to work.
There’s no other surface for the refreshments. And only minutes to redo the room. You feel hot, you need to go out, need to figure out what to do.
Outside the door, you bump straight into Angela Burns, Mr Jackson’s PA. She’s getting the morning mail.
‘Sorry,’ you say. You step to one side, wrench your skirt down as best you can. You spot a hole in the tights.
‘Annie, I’ve been looking for you,’ she says.
You cross your legs, lean back against the wall.
‘I was in the boardroom.’ Your throat’s dry. ‘Getting it ready.’
‘I know, don’t worry, the meeting’s put back to ten thirty.’
She goes to the water cooler and pours a drink from the blue tap and hands it to you.
‘Come upstairs,’ she says. ‘There are technical difficulties with the live presentation. The engineers are working to resolve it.’
As she walks, she works her way through the bundle of letters, reading.
The ninth-floor corridor is dimly lit with hidden lights; the smell is fresh flowers and cigars, or raw wood. The walls seem higher, and the sound of your Crocs gets lost in the carpet.
In her office the desk phone is ringing. She lifts the receiver and beckons you to follow, pointing to the turquoise seat. You tuck your legs and smooth your skirt as best as you can. Her big clean windows look down on the city: in the distance, there’s Tallaght, but you can’t make out Fortunestown. White shelves are stacked here and there with pale-coloured files and boxes in pastel pinks, blues, mauves. All the files are labelled with words and numbers, perfectly lined up, like in an IKEA catalogue.
At the end of the call she replaces the receiver without making a sound and then stays quiet for a moment.
‘I’ve arranged for a table to be brought to the boardroom. It’s not ideal but I know you’ll do your best.’
She looks at her watch, a pretty watch with a white patent strap and gold face.
‘There’s not much time, I know, but redo the flasks. The coffee has got to be hot.’
As you leave her office you keep looking. If you do well with the serving, you might get a chance. It isn’t too late. You just have to serve. How hard can it be?
There’s a busy feel to the eighth floor with people pushing past, bustling, late. You race to get to the trolley, the flasks. You must wait in the corridor while the new table is put on its side and pushed through the boardroom doorway. The engineers still haven’t left.
The water boiler is almost hot again, so you scald out the flasks. You take a damp cloth from the draining board and a white tablecloth from the drawer.
In the boardroom, the engineers are soldering wires with a short hot rod. It’s the smell of your da’s workshop on a wet Saturday. You wipe the table, push it against the wall and spread the tablecloth so it hangs down evenly. You move the pastries and cutlery, straighten the blotters, tidy as the files in Angela’s office, and swing the swivel chairs back into place.
By 10:22 a.m., the flasks are redone and ready in the boardroom. A third man has joined the others and all three puzzle over a laptop. You lift the last flask into place on the side table and you are about to shine it with a soft cloth when a great laughing cheer sounds: ‘Lads, we’re up ’n’ runnin’!’
They gather all their things and start to leave.
Quickly you pick the bits of tape, the wire, off the carpet tiles and check the bins. You spray a quick tsss of Glade into the room, put the air conditioning on ‘blow’ and leave the door wide open.
With a couple of minutes to tidy the kitchen before the meeting starts, you clear the worktop of dishes and cups, reload the dishwasher and rinse the sink with Spring Fresh Domestos. The last thing is to take the jug of milk from the kitchen to the boardroom.
You’re at the fridge when the phone rings.
‘Annie?’
It’s Vera.
‘Mr Jackson’s PA, Angela Burns, I believe you were talking to her this morning?’
‘I was up on the ninth, in her office.’
‘So I heard. Angela has offered to serve the refreshments herself this morning. You’re off the hook, so to speak.’
You close the fridge door.
‘Mr Jackson’s on his way down. Is the room ready?’
‘Ready? Yeah, it’s ready.’
You’re done. You go down in the lift to the basement and back out for a smoke. The windows of your office block mirror the other buildings opposite. The sun has moved on. You sit back under the branches. The leaves make shadows on the concrete at your feet. There’s no wind to ruffle the leaves but they have a sound of their own just the same. You stretch your legs and feel the ladder getting longer, running on down past your ankle and under the sole of your foot. You think about Angela Burns, her office, your skirt, the cost of the tights. It’s not e
nough to get an opportunity, to be presented with a chance. You have to be ready. Ready when the chance comes. You smoke and stay out as long as you can get away with. Then you stub out the butt, crumple the pack and go back inside.
Barcelona
Mary Costello
They had not long arrived in the city. They had driven all day on the motorway, over high bridges and around wide sweeping bends, with cars speeding past and trucks bearing down on them and only a low metal guard shielding them from the ravines below. The drive had terrified Catherine. She had kept her head down. Peter had not seemed to notice, or hear her when she asked if they could please get off the motorway.
Their hotel was on a narrow street off the Ramblas where Picasso had once lived over a jewellery shop. They walked out into the bright shopping streets, and parted company for a while. Catherine strolled around, in and out of expensive boutiques with gleaming tiled floors and semi-bare rails. Through La Boqueria, the covered market with its trays of tongues and hanging hams. Now and then she stood before a shopfront or a billboard – the colours of Spain, of Miró, everywhere. The afternoon sun beat down. Once, she caught sight of Peter up ahead and ducked into a shop. She found a café down a side street and sat outside with coffee and a cigarette. Sometimes she thought she could live on cigarettes alone, silently, deeply inhaling, letting thoughts gather, coalesce, then purge themselves in the exhalation.
Later, together, they walked in the shade of the plane trees on the Ramblas. The birds, locked up for siesta, were silent. Rabbits and tortoises too. Canarios €14. Pico de Coral €20. Isabellas €25. Arrival in a new city often reminded Catherine of her youth, the pining for home she would feel on Sunday nights as her bus approached the city and the orange lights up ahead bled into the horizon. Now her mind was crowded by details of the day, the drive, the week ahead. It was their fourth anniversary, and this trip, this city, had been Peter’s choice. She knew he wanted it to matter, to mean something to them afterwards. Setting out that morning, she had brought up Lorca, whose poems she had taken with her.
